Train Of Thought (It's As Easy As)
by Liberty-In
Summary: Sherlock never says anything about the insinuations surrounding him and John. It's weird because usually, Sherlock can't help but have the last word - about anything. This leads to John's current thoughts going off on a tangent as he tries (and fails) to write up their last case. (Set between Belgravia and Reichenbach.)


**A/N:** Ok, once again - no beta/Brit-picker and ALL ERRORS ARE MINE and I'm sorry. I know how much I hate errors and you probably do too, so my deepest, sincerest apologies. I'd appreciate it if you showed your love/hate/advice in the form of reviews, follows, etc., please and thank you. I might come back later and re-edit it because that's what I do but right now I'm anxious to just publish it already, so yeah. That is all. - Liberty

**Disclaimer:** No, these characters do not belong to me, yes I love them, no I don't get anything out of this except my own enjoyment. And hopefully reviews. (*hint hint nudge nudge*)

**UPDATE (5/12/12): **Now on AO3, go to my profile for the link. :3

* * *

**1.**

Sherlock never said anything, and that left John wondering _why_.

John was sitting there in 221B at his laptop, ready to write up their last case but instead of running through the case in his head, he found himself staring at the blinking cursor (the horrid Blinking Cursor Syndrome was back – Jesus, wasn't he past this already?). His thoughts were taking a completely different and increasingly hard to ignore trail of thought. It was like a really good book – once you started, you couldn't stop. And John couldn't stop until he saw this through to the end.

It was utterly bewildering, though, so who could really blame him? It was something to mull over quietly while Sherlock lounged in his usual post-case bliss. (It wouldn't last, of course, but John figured he would enjoy the lull in activity for now, while he could.)

Sherlock was probably alien for the things he tended to do, all the things he did that made sense but sometimes didn't and sometimes made sense because they didn't, because it was Sherlock and you could question it all you liked but it might take a whole lifetime before you found the answers by yourself. Sherlock was constantly keeping John on his toes with all his boom-in-your-face explosions of extraordinary feats, but this particular mystery was of the more quiet kind, and had taken a while for John to pinpoint.

That didn't make it any less enjoyable to ponder, now that he had the chance.

Looking at it rationally, it was certainly a possibility that Sherlock couldn't be arsed responding to such trivial remarks, or maybe the constant influx of observations, the aberrations in the facts, the thrill of the chase were vying for (and winning) all his attention.

But at the same time, this was _Sherlock Holmes_; your-incompetence-insults-me, how-can-you-even-function-without-maiming-yourself, you're-all-subpar-mortals-bow-down-and-do-as-I-say-you-are-not-worthy-and-I-must-always-have-the-last-word Sherlock Holmes.

(The last one was John's impression of the infuriating man-child.)

At first, John hadn't taken much notice. They turned up at crime scenes, harassed the techs and they snapped back (John would make an effort to calm everyone down). John would help in any way he could while Sherlock pieced data and observations together (John would compliment him when Sherlock did his usual rapid-fire reveal of his deductions) and then they'd track down the suspect/s, and there might be a chase and/or a scuffle (best bit). Then they would go for Chinese or something, and go home, and in a nutshell, that was that.

Except lately, John was beginning to wonder… why was Sherlock so unresponsive to the rumours and outright accusations, the innuendos and elbow nudges? John had taken a while to notice (he wasn't Sherlock after all) but he did eventually, he_ had_, and he was wondering why Sherlock did nothing.

Sherlock never, _never _said a word. Ever. It was more than a bit uncharacteristic, that.

Sarah had been John's best run girlfriend-wise, but she ended it because she claimed John would always put everything else second when it came to Sherlock. John's first reaction was to protest – but eventually he grudgingly accepted her wishes (what could he do, really?). They'd remained fairly close, though their relationship wasn't the classic friendship or romance. Friends with benefits was probably the closest description. Their understanding was simple – she was there when John needed to take a break from the incredible but slightly tiresome whirlwind that was Sherlock, either as a friend or as a shag, and both of them were allowed to see other people. The whole thing was quite liberating.

But John knew it wouldn't last forever, and that he'd soon have to find someone else to satiate his libido, but for now this was fine. She'd eventually find someone she wanted to settle down with after all, and they'd have to end the casual-sex bit of their relationship (this time would probably come sooner rather than later, seeing as they hadn't shagged in over a month and she and her latest boo were celebrating their two-month anniversary) (but two months?) (was that really cause for celebration?).

So John had Sarah, and infrequent nights at the pub with Greg or Mike or his old footy mates, and other, feeble attempts at dates that filled some of the more boring nights.

(Feeble mostly because Sherlock would either directly or indirectly ruin John's chances.)

But Irene's appearance (and unfortunate demise) had sparked a train of thought that John could not stop. Sherlock didn't bother with such things as mundane and _normal _as sex and romance. He'd said so himself – 'married to his work'. He patently despised being in the company of other people, and didn't hesitate to say so. Loudly. Enthusiastically. At every opportunity he got.

And yet… had he ever had anyone? Any kind of affair, romantic relationship, sexual partner, ever?

Did he have anyone other than John and Lestrade and Mrs Hudson, anyone that he truly cared about and would willingly spend time with?

Had Sherlock always been this way?

Had the genius always devoted himself to his work so thoroughly? Had he simply grown up observing others and decided all sentiment was completely pointless and a waste of time?

Or had he tried … and it had all ended badly?

Either way, John couldn't help wondering. Sherlock didn't care what other people thought about him – not really. He was above all of that.

Usually.

Because John was starting to notice some small cracks in his armour. Like that one time Sebastian Wilkes had – well. Talked about his adolescence. Said they'd all hated him. _Excluded him. Rejected him for being different. _

John winced not a little ruefully at the memory. _Colleague, _he had corrected. Shite.

Regardless, either Sherlock was letting his guard down more often or John was getting better at reading him. And yet John wasn't sure what the lack of response _meant_.

_Maybe he prefers this to what he had to deal with when he was younger – people mistaking him for being in a romantic relationship is better than being labelled an outcast, loved by no one. Maybe that's why he doesn't mind. _

This probably wasn't a good thing to be obsessing over. John did live with someone who was practically psychic, and these must be … sensitive topics.

And yet that curious train just kept chugging along happily, refusing to let it go.

* * *

**2.**

On the one hand, John could tell that Sherlock wasn't the cold, unfeeling genius that everyone made him out to be. At least not totally.

Sure he was manic and loved puzzles that involved corpses and killers and chases at 2am and didn't give a toss about the victims. He ordered everyone about and outed people's affairs in public and claimed the very existence of so many idiots offended him. He was a terrible person to live with – more than half of his experiments were probably illegal in a domestic environment such as 221B, what with the smells and the explosions in the kitchen (well, that only happened once … but John didn't want to talk about it) and the stolen body parts, he would rather make a horrific, suspiciously rotten-meat-smelling mess than dare to even think about something as trivial as cleaning up, and he played the violin at 4am in such a way that it made sounds like he was slowly skinning an alley cat, and he shot at the wall and he didn't eat didn't sleep didn't talk and when he did talk he was an insufferable, arrogant sod but –

But you can't delete feelings, not even if you're Sherlock Holmes.

John knew that everyone else thought he was a psychopath – it was made quite clear to him at that first crime scene, and the time of the drugs bust, and they kept at it, kept saying it for months after. Probably had said it for months_, years_ before.

Sherlock, being Sherlock, would sneer at them, humiliate them by revealing their dirty little _ordinary _secrets and double lives, and tell them they're scared and stupid and _insignificant_ for hiding behind such insults because it only revealed their own insecurities to lash out so _unprovoked _at another because all he did was tell them what they _already knew_ and what was the point of being polite anyway.

He was only telling them the truth, and Sherlock Holmes's life's work was observing, deducing, _revealing _the truth.

_And I'm not a psychopath, you incompetent fool_, he would say,_ I'm a high-functioning sociopath._

But he was like this as a teenager – Sebastian, the rotten plebe, had said so.

So how had Sherlock reacted to … all of this, back then?

John could see it, could imagine a younger Sherlock: curious, boisterous, intelligent, famished for knowledge. Eager to show off his skills. And at one stage in his life he'd cut himself off from the rest of the world so he could be cold, detached, refuse the rules of society simply because he didn't want to (had nothing to lose?) (so it was _his _choice to be excluded, so he was in control, strong instead of weak?).

It was all speculation of course, but Sherlock might as well have told John himself for how confident John was of this theory. He'd done it so he could need no one and immerse himself in the tedious task of finding ways to not be bored.

And John could probably guess and say that when the work wasn't enough for that brilliant brain, his curiosity, his disregard for his _transport _(his isolation?) had caused him to turn to drugs.

Was this cold façade a shield from the world, refined over the years to separate, to remain above the normal, pathetic people of the world?

Or was it for protection?

John opened a new tab in his browser – Sherlock had shown him how, John was terrible with computers – and looked up two terms. John had found himself doubtful of everyone's claims. Including Sherlock's. But aside from that, he was curious, and it couldn't hurt to do a little research.

* * *

_Sociopath_: _n. _A person with a personality disorder manifesting itself in extreme antisocial attitudes and behaviour and a lack of conscience.

_ Psychopath_: _n. _A person suffering from chronic mental disorder with abnormal or violent social behaviour.

* * *

These were the first and probably the simplest definitions Google had turned up, but John honestly thought Sherlock was neither of these. He was a madman, certainly, but he wasn't … he wasn't _violent_ with others, unless someone he cared about was threatened or harmed (the time that American dared to hurt Mrs Hudson was evidence of _that_); he was antisocial at the best and the worst of times but he was almost willingly social on some occasions… probably only when John was there.

Although John could see how Sherlock could think of himself this way, and how everyone else could think of him that way. Yet at the same time, he knew with certainty that you couldn't put such a typical label on such an unprecedented, transcendent, atypical man.

There was no one like him, has never been anyone like him – and John knew that there will never be anyone like him in the future.

There was no point in labelling him, because he was the only one in the world.

* * *

**3.**

Sherlock was insane, brilliant, arrogant, and he behaved like a ten-year-old. He was one of a kind. He could probably see murder in something as impossible as a sandwich. He was intriguing. He could see things no one else could, do things no one else would. He didn't waste time on manners and social etiquette and the solar system because his brain was already chock-full of the stuff that most people would give up on learning because of the sheer abstractedness of it all, or the stuff that wasn't written in books yet. He thought like a genius and acted like a child and nothing made him happier than the game.

And on a couple of occasions, there would be dinners and companionable silences and entertaining conversation and sometimes Sherlock would make tea (John was surprised as well) and sometimes he would use his own laptop because John asked and sometimes when John had a bad day Sherlock would look at cold cases instead of finishing off that experiment on acids, or bring him tea. (Tea fixed everything.)

He might do small talk with Mrs Hudson, might at least pretend to listen, he would smile at her and hug her. John was pretty sure he loved her in his own way.

John was also pretty sure no one else could see _this _side of him, the warmer side. To put it frankly, people would say he didn't care about anyone because they were drawing conclusions with insufficient evidence.

Sherlock had cured John's limp. He would lead John down alleyways, he would get himself into near-death situations that John has to pull him out of, furious at the genius' impulsiveness and incapability of following orders (it's a wonder he's lasted this long without John as it is). Sherlock had given him a new life, a life he genuinely enjoyed. A life in which he was happy, where he felt useful again, and this was a bit of miracle after his untimely 'honourable discharge'. It wasn't the same as Afghanistan, of course it wasn't. In fact in many ways it was better.

He was his best mate, his only real friend and they were companions, comrades in the Battles of London.

Sherlock was Sherlock, and John liked him just fine the way he was. Never mind what anyone else thought.

And maybe that's all there was to it, really: Sherlock and John complemented each other absolutely. You'd be an idiot not to realise that, and Sherlock was the genius, so he had to know this. So _that_ had to be (at least partly) the reason he didn't say anything when someone made such insinuations. Maybe he didn't care what anyone else thought of them because he _knew _what they had, and he was confident about it. Maybe he knew that what they had was fine, just the way it was. And neither of them wanted anyone else to know_ all_ the complexities they'd built their relationship out of and around, because for one, it wasn't any of their business, and two, it wasn't that complex at all really, and yet no one would understand. No one would be able to _distinguish _between _romantically involved_ or _in love _and _them_, if they tried to verbalize it all.

Neither could think of a single proper word for what they had, so how could they explain it to someone else? It was better, wasn't it, to just tell them in simple terms and let it rest: _we're just friends, no we're not a couple. _Or in Sherlock's case, ignore them.

John complained about not having a steady girlfriend and he would take what he got, but he didn't know what he'd do if for some stupid reason he lost Sherlock. How could one voice such a sentiment without people getting erroneous ideas?

John thought he understood, now. He understood that what they had, what made them _them_, SherlockandJohn, two parts of one, too unique for ordinary words.

If it was beyond the genius' articulation, John wouldn't even try.

And with that John's thoughts dissipated as something – newspaper…? – came whirling into his line of sight, bounced off his head and landed on his keyboard.

John blinked.

There was another – this one fell into his lap and bounced to the ground guiltily.

John glared up at the true culprit, who was laying insipid on the sofa.

"Sherlock," John began. He blinked again as another found it's target. The man hadn't even opened his eyes to aim.

"_Sherlock_," John started once more, "Seriously, why you are throwing wads of newspaper at me?"

Sherlock murmured something unintelligible.

"Sorry?"

"Bored!" Sherlock leapt to his feet and stalked his way over to John with his usual origami-unfolding-feline-grace, slamming his hands down opposite John on the table. "This is ridiculous, John. I need something to do. I need a case! Stupid criminals insist on remaining lawful and boring and as a result my mental state is deteriorating because it's all so _hatefully tedious_."

John's glare intensified. Sherlock scowled back as if all this was John's fault.

Sherlock's eyes suddenly went wide and his mouth formed a pout. John saw what was coming a mile away.

"Oh come on. Don't break your streak now, you've gone so long without one." John rolled his eyes as Sherlock's scowl returned, "It's only been two days since the last one, Sherlock."

"Exactly," Sherlock huffed.

John sighed irritably. "You're impossible," he said, but his eyes were smiling.

"That's a matter of opinion, and I find I'm not the impossible one here," Sherlock sneered, stalking away from the table. He addressed the skull, "There are many nuances to the word, but I'm fairly certain I could prove you wrong in all instances if you meant something different. _Impossible_. Such an ambiguous expression… "

He was almost talking to himself by the end of his rant, so John said nothing. He watched as Sherlock took part in a death-glaring contest with the skull. If he had to, John would put his money on Sherlock (after all, what was dead bone against the wrath of Sherlock's piercing gaze?).

John shook his head at the consultant's mannerisms. As much as Sherlock's tantrums amused him, they tended to get more than a tad irritating the more the detective's mood declined – and John did hate seeing his friend so … unhappy.

"Alright, tell you what: if you stop sulking, we can go out and you can deduce people for me, then maybe get a bite to eat afterwards. How about it?"

It was a little game they liked to play on occasion, this deducing of random strangers on the street. They would go out to some public location, whether it be restaurant, bus, or cinema, and John would pick out people and Sherlock would tell John about them, where they were going, what they were thinking about. Sherlock claimed it was a necessity to keep his brain sharp and agile and that this was the perfect exercise to do so, but John knew better. There was more to it than that; this was Sherlock's version of fun. His forte. It was what he loved to do: prove to everyone who was listening how smart he was, and John really did make the perfect audience. Sometimes Sherlock would get John to try and John would humour him, but usually he would give it up as a lost cause and just come up with the most outlandish ideas and pop culture references and base them on the most irrelevant facts – _let's see, she's wearing pearl earrings and a blue necklace, so her favourite meal is fishfingers and custard._ Just to make Sherlock laugh.

Sherlock didn't get the references, but that was okay. Both of them would end up in absolute stitches more often than not anyway.

And sometimes, if they were really lucky, they would find someone whose crimes would amount to more than those of the odd vandal or petty shoplifter.

John turned back to his computer, his fingers danced across the touchpad as he went through the process of shutting it down. Sherlock was looking at him with something akin to disbelieving wonder in his eyes, but it was gone by the time John looked up at him. His mouth curved up slowly into a madman's grin, excitement making his body positively thrum with energy. John couldn't help beaming back at him. He looked like a kid on Christmas Eve.

They grabbed their coats – Sherlock insisted it would be cold out – and made their way downstairs. Sherlock paused momentarily at the door, looking back at John. As John stared back, he found he couldn't quite decode Sherlock's expression this time. There was a slight frown on John's face as he regarded Sherlock quizzically. Sherlock would have denied it outright but it was a simple joy, probably a first-time occurrence, that the detective's ever-changing eyes emanated as he looked at his flatmate, colleague, _friend_.

John nodded at the door, breaking the moment, and asked, "Shall we?" That blinding, manic grin returned.

The door to 221B closed behind them as the pair immersed themselves in the fray of their beloved bustling city, talking and grinning at one another.

Sherlock Holmes, with John Watson by his side.

The only ones in the world.


End file.
